The house was dark except for the soft glow under the bathroom door. Vicky lay on the big bed in the master bedroom, sheets cool against her naked skin. She’d waited all evening—through dinner where they barely spoke, through the way his eyes kept tracing her throat when she swallowed, through the heavy silence that followed every accidental brush of fingers. No more games. No more pretending it was just a one-time slip.
She heard the shower shut off. Water dripped, pipes groaned. Then the door opened.
Mark stepped out, steam curling around him like smoke. No towel wrapped tight—just draped low on his hips, slung so the edge barely clung to the deep V of muscle above his groin. Water beaded on his chest, ran in slow trails over the ridges of his abs, disappeared into the dark hair below
